


the stars, the moon- they have all been blown out

by snicklefritz



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Anastasia AU, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-29 02:19:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3878500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snicklefritz/pseuds/snicklefritz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Violent political unrest on Naboo led to the overthrow of the monarchy and the death of Queen Padmé Amidala, but there have always been rumors that she escaped the planet during the revolution. Ten years later, light-years away on Tatooine, amnesiac Ami is ready to follow the only clue she has to her past, a clue that indicates her future may lie on Coruscant. Anastasia AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the stars, the moon- they have all been blown out

**Author's Note:**

> Exactly what it sounds like- a Star Wars-Anastasia AU, because I'm crazy. There are no warnings currently but as soon as I've written more I will tag anything that might be triggery, although I don't really expect there to be much. 
> 
> This mostly started because I had the idea of 'what if Padmé was raised on Tatooine?' and then I had feelings about her meeting the Lars family and well. That's where this mess comes from. Title from Florence and the Machine's "Cosmic Love" because I am that big of a cliche and also it's fantastic and I don't care.

She must be in hell; that’s the only explanation for both her surroundings and the blinding pain in her skull. The twin suns of whatever planet she’s on bear down on her from every angle, and the empty expanse of shifting, treacherous sand goes on further than her tired eyes can see. Sweat has pooled into the small of her back, and her shoes- slippers, really, thin leather soles made for running- are so full of sand she’s beginning to daydream about becoming one with the wastes around her (although, that might be dehydration setting in). She’d kill for a mouthful of water. She’d kill for a _mirage_ of a mouthful of water. 

If she stops walking she’ll die, so she continues to stumble through the sand at the pace of a lame dewback, her dirty hair starting to stick to the back of her neck. Talking hurts her throat, but the quiet of the dunes is oppressive, and she’s not sure she’s coherent enough to keep it in her head anyway. 

“Name, unknown. Age, unknown. Homeworld, unknown. Family, unknown. Planet, unknown,” she murmured to herself through parched lips. “Injuries: headwound, left temple. Burn, back of neck-” here she touched the injury in question, and hissed as her fingers made contact with what she was sure was a fresh third-degree burn. “Bruises and small cuts, knuckles. Binder bruises, both wrists. Possible sprain in left wrist.” She remembered getting those, but the headwound and burn mark remained a mystery, along with the other important details of her life. 

She was definitely human, but that didn’t help much. She spoke Basic, also unhelpful. Her clothes, half of which she’d shed several kilometers back, were made of a fine, heavy combination of silk and velvet that were beyond useless in this climate. Apparently, wherever she was, had been either an unplanned detour, or she was very stupid about appropriate desert attire. She sincerely hoped it was the former. 

Her feet stumbled over themselves and she fell face-first into the sand. Her body felt so heavy, weighed down by the terrain itself, by her very bones. She breathed in and coughed on the taste of sand and sweat. Her fingers clenched as she tried to push herself back up, only to fall back down. She felt sand seeping into the tiny cuts on her hands, making the small wounds burn like blasterfire, and a sob tore out of her dry throat. 

“No, no, no, nonononono, get up, get up, please, if you’re going to die, die on your feet!” she cried, her muscles trembling to hold herself up. She managed an awkward pushup before she fell, and this time she rolled down the dune she was on, tumbling down to the bottom in a whirlwind of sand and pain. Everything hurt. She was too dehydrated to form tears, but she could still cry, and whimper pathetically as the last of her strength failed her. The last thing she saw were the twin suns, unreachable, unforgiving, mocking her from their heights. 

~

It’s hot, but a bearable hot, a manageable, reasonable hot. Her eyes flutter open to see bleached stone walls, lit by a single luma lamp from the center of the ceiling. She’s in a bed, and her head hurts marginally less, and if she knew whether or not she prayed to any deity, she’d thank them. 

Moving is painful, but she sits up slowly. There’s nothing interesting about the room, except perhaps it’s cleanliness. The blankets are rough homespun with no discernable pattern. Everything seems to be some shade of brown, which she guesses is normal on a desert planet. With a start, looking down at her hands, she sees that someone has bandaged them, and at the edge a thin layer of bacta has leaked out. Touching the back of her neck and her temple, she realizes both wounds have received the same treatment. 

Is she home? Whoever found her, are they family? Friends? Enemies? She’s in no condition to escape again if it’s the latter. 

She lays back down. The bandage on her neck itches, and her muscles have stiffened after long hours of unconsciousness. 

“Name, unknown. Age, unknown. Homeworld, unknown. Family, unknown. Planet, unknown,” she whispers to herself. There’s no spark of recognition, no lingering feeling of a past life. Just the solid knowledge that she simply doesn’t know. 

~  
She must have fallen asleep again, because the next thing she knows is that someone is touching her forehead. Her eyes fly open and she slaps at the stranger’s wrist away in a panic, struggling to get out of the tangle of blankets. The luma lamp is off, but there’s just enough light for her to see a humanoid shape standing over her. She kicks out instinctively, her foot connecting with his thigh, and vaults out of bed, landing hard on the stone floor. The stranger tries to grab her, saying something in Basic, but she’s too wild with fear to hear him. She won’t go back to the slavers. She’ll die first.

The door slides open with a touch and she runs as fast as her exhausted legs will carry her, past a ‘fresher and what looks like another bedroom, but no exit. She can hear the stranger’s heavy footsteps behind her, his rough voice calling “Stop!”

A door to her right slides open and she sees another figure almost identical to the first, big and definitely male, looking at her in surprise. There’s enough light for her to note that he’s human, but that’s all her panicked mind can process as she darts past him. Everything hurts, and she’s not wearing any shoes, but she keeps running until she suddenly hits the (giant open space) that must be the center of the compound. It’s full daylight now, and the twin suns shine down on her cruelly, stinging her eyes.

The two men have gathered their wits and followed her; glancing back, she can see they must be related, possibly father and son. She runs again, out of the sunlight and back into the shadows of the underground home. There’s only one room down this hallway and she barrells inside, startling a young woman who’s cooking on the range. 

“Oh, you’re awake,” the woman says, one hand over her heart, the other holding a spatula. The woman’s not much older than her, with blonde hair done up in braids encircling her head. She can hear the two men hurrying along the hallway behind her, but the kitchen is a dead end. Her eyes go to the kitchen knife resting on the counter, and without conscious thought she lunges forward, grabbing the knife and grabbing the blonde’s wrist with her other hand, pressing the knife against the older girl’s ribs. She knows exactly how to slip a knife between those ribs to pierce the heart. She doesn’t know how she knows, only that she does. 

The older man, the one she kicked, goes pale when he steps into the kitchen, and the younger man is right behind him, and he lets out a cry when he sees the situation. 

“Beru!” he shouts, and makes to rush into the kitchen; the older man grabs him by the shoulders and holds him back. The blonde- Beru- has stayed remarkably still and calm throughout this, even with a stranger holding a knife to her ribs.

“Please,” the old man says in a placating voice. “Please let her go.”

She tightens her grip on Beru’s arm. So many questions, she didn’t know which to ask first. 

“Where am I?” she settles on. 

“On my moisture farm,” the old man says. “The Lars place. Past the Dune Sea.”

She’s never heard of a moisture farm. It sounds awful. “What planet?”  
“Tatooine,” he answers dutifully. He glances down at the knife in her hands. “I know you’re very confused right now. We saw the burn on your neck-”

She jerks involuntarily, and Beru cries out a little as the knife jabs uncomfortably into her side. The younger man looks stricken, and Beru can’t take her eyes off him. 

“It’s from a slave collar,” the old man continued. Her eyes widened and she stepped back, dragging Beru with her. 

“I’m a person!” she said furiously, tears stinging her eyes. “And my name is-”

_That’s right. You don’t have a name. They took that from you too._

“My- my name is-”

“It’s okay, little one,” the old man said, risking a step forward. “We’re not gonna take you back to those people.”

Her hand was gripping the knife so tightly she was beginning to lose feeling in her hand. “My name is…” she whispered, straining her brain, desperately trying to remember something, anything. 

“Put the knife down,” he said. “Hurting Beru won’t help you remember.”

She swallowed, her mouth dry from stress and heat, and in one simultaneous motion dropped the knife on the floor and shoved Beru forward. She collapsed on the ground, tears streaming down her face as Beru hugged both men and kissed the younger one fiercely. 

“What’s my name?” she cried into her hands. “What’s my name?”


End file.
